


Musings of the Madly Loved

by escspace, Queen_of_the_Ruckus



Series: Fun With Friends [1]
Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: Alcohol, Guns, M/M, Modern Ragar AU, Roleplay, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22495483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escspace/pseuds/escspace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_of_the_Ruckus/pseuds/Queen_of_the_Ruckus
Summary: It is the twenty-first century, and Frankenstein and Ragar, two long time companions with a friendship spanning eons, spend a leisurely evening at their usual bar. Things quickly become heated in their night of debauchery.An RP between escspace and Queen_of_the_Ruckus.
Relationships: Frankenstein (Noblesse)/Ragar Kertia
Series: Fun With Friends [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624360
Kudos: 23





	Musings of the Madly Loved

The gentle hum of gossip, mourning, laughing, glasses clinking, drinks pouring, and other notes from various walks of life wafts leisurely through the space, warmly lit by trendy, retro edison bulbs hanging limply from the ceiling. He is on his third or so drink—a brisk start to the night—liberally spiked with his own concoction designed to give even those enhanced to his level a kick. In their little corner of the bar—the discreet seating chosen such that there would be no curious, discerning eyes to question Frankenstein drugging himself at regular intervals—time passes slowly and languidly, and for a moment, they bask in feeling like the rest of the world has melted away, save for their small carved out space in the booth.

He chases the cold liquor around on his tongue, savoring its comfortable burn. Relishing the acrid addition that has long since come to represent Frankenstein’s companionship while delicately adjusting his mask. Ragar lounges easily in their little corner, matching his friend perfectly in both pace and in his display of posture and mood. In their little pocket of privacy they could almost be anywhere, any of a thousand points in time now past. Though perhaps the music coursing through them now is grounding. He smiles faintly in approval behind the veil of thin fabric, the pulsing beat blending pleasantly with the growing buzz from his heavily spiked drinks. He gazes with cool interest as Frankenstein pours them both another round, accepting a glass and swirling it lazily, clinking ice settling.

It is ritual at this point, this sort of companionship; their faces are now easily recognized by the owners and employees of their regular late evening haunt. Once a week, every week, barring those graced with events of near-death with the Union, they shuffle in with the other patrons, a fat wallet and a full vial in Frankenstein’s pockets. Frankenstein looks at Ragar, scrutinizing. “What are you looking at?” he asks, only half-curious but still provoked—as he is aware he is easily provoked—by Ragar’s steady stare.

His brow furrows lightly at the question. The focus of his attention is obvious, and Frankenstein does not ask obvious questions. Taking a moment to consider from the many that pass them so lazily by, he sips at his drink and sweeps the area for a hint towards a more intelligent answer. A couple passes their little booth, casually craning their necks to check for their own bit of privacy. Upon meeting his gaze, the young woman giggles and shies away, her partner pausing to wink before hurrying urgently after. "I was looking at you, Frankenstein. Would you perhaps like to go somewhere more private?"

Frankenstein snickers, perhaps also somewhat feeling the flush and playfulness of an onsetting buzz. Then, he grins, all sharpness and teeth. "Really? Right _now_ ?" Certainly, his long time companion wastes no time getting to the point, as is appropriate of a Kertia. "My, my, since when have you become so... _indecorous_ , Ragar? We haven't even finished our drinks yet." He smirks and raises his glass of liquor for emphasis.

Ragar looks down into his own glass before draining its contents, covering the mild warmth of his embarrassment under the darkness of his mask. Though he considers himself to be somewhat used to his friend's taunting after all their centuries, his color suggests that he has not yet become immune. "Showing affection in private is not 'indecorous', Frankenstein." 

His gaze returns once again to the young couple flitting frantically about the room. If this were a movie or a show on tv, someone would step in and threaten one of them, and the other would rise to defend them heroically. There would be nothing 'indecorous' about a quiet tryst following such an event. He wonders briefly about their own scenario, what the bad person might say or do, and how he might step in to defend his companion.

 _Cute_ is a sentiment Frankenstein reserves for very rare people and very rare instances, and this is one of those people in one of those instances. He breathes out a huff of a chuckle shortly before downing the rest of his own drink. With quiet drama, Frankenstein firmly sets the glass down onto the laquered wood of the table. "Hm," he hums, slightly sing-song. Without another word, he gets up and shuffles away. He does not glance back, but he knows Ragar watches him as he disappears among the people. Moments later, Frankenstein messages him, 'Meet me in the restroom."

Ragar frowns down at his phone, wondering at the amount of privacy truly available in a public restroom before rising regardless. He pauses at the edge of their table, gesturing the amorous couple over and graciously turning over their regular booth for the evening. Leaving the partial bottle of clear liquor, he deposits their poisoned glasses quietly at the bar, weaving swiftly and smoothly through throngs of inattentive patrons.

His ass is grabbed at more than once, but he pays this no mind. He follows swiftly in the direction of his friend's disappearance and later, in the direction indicated by a painted arrow. His arm is caught by a well-intentioned employee as he pushes at the restroom door. "Hey honey, that's the men's!"

"I am aware," he answers smoothly, turning back and vanishing within, leaving the man to straighten his polo self-consciously and cough falsely into his fist.

Once inside, his nose wrinkles in distaste. Stale urine and fresh bile taint the air of the poorly-lit hall, toilet partitions barely covering enough to warrant the expense of their installment. Scanning the stall floor, Frankenstein's expensive leather shoes are nowhere to be seen.

Frankenstein huffs impatiently, checking his rather antiquated though exhaustingly expensive silver watch and counting the seconds that tick by as he leans against the locked door of the relatively more private genderless single restroom. The pale scent of floral air freshener coupled with the citrus tang of fresh disinfectant and floor polish gives him a good enough illusion of hygiene. Though not nearly as ideal as his meticulously kept bedrooms in his meticulously kept house, it is more tolerable than squeezing into a tight, dirty stall. Finally, he decides to quickly turn around, open the door, and march outside again. A few strides down the hall, he finds Ragar in the center of the public men's restroom staring dumbly at the floor.

"We're not doing _that_ in _here_ ," Frankenstein says suddenly from behind him, expression creasing in mild though friendly annoyance. "Do you really think I'd pick a place like this? Do you think at all?" Frankenstein scoffs, then motions out the door with a nod. "It's over here."

Exhaling softly in relief, he turns to follow his friend past the rows of dented doors and stained urinals, dark boots clicking softly against the standard square tile. 

In all honesty, when it comes to Frankenstein he really _doesn't_ know what to think. The only thing he can be certain of is the man’s devotion to Sir Raizel. Aside from that... Well, even his desire for order and cleanliness seem directly at odds with some of their bedroom activities. Perhaps this is part of his charm.

After Frankenstein leads them to the private restroom, shuts the door, and locks it, he does not bother with formalities, shoving Ragar back against the white tiled wall hard enough to almost cause the back of his head to collide with it and pressing their mouths together. They are separated by the fabric of Ragar's ever-present, ever-pointless mask, but the scent of alcohol still lingers between them with each heating breath. "We shouldn't be too long," Frankenstein murmurs, aware of the inappropriateness of such an intrusive location even as he knows he is far from being a straight-laced morally upstanding citizen. Shameless and knowing, he presses his palm to where Ragar's both slender and toned thighs meet.

Ragar's eyes flash wide at the impact, then slip shut at the warmth and force of Frankenstein's want. Breathing him in, kissing him through ethereal cloth, Ragar's lips quirk up at his companion's request for speed. Generally, he finds the other telling him to _slow down_ in these situations. Reaching out, he grabs at Frankenstein's hair in a way that he knows he'll enjoy, twisting it roughly back while pressing eagerly against the hand at his crotch. Savoring the intimacy and the symbolism of the act he pulls Frankenstein closer, kissing him with fervor.

Hands, breath, hands—they are heated like hounds and thrumming with a clumsy, drunken thrill. Frankenstein grins to himself at feeling Ragar pull demandingly at his hair with a spontaneity and familiarity unique to his friend who knows by now his affinity for pain and fight. He groans quietly, approvingly, low in his throat as he bites at Ragar's lips through the mask. "So, tell me..." he begins. "Do you want to fuck or be fucked?"

The flush that colors his face has about as much to do with the alcohol as it does Frankenstein's choice of words. He blinks in embarrassment, wondering how best to state his preference without being scoffed at, and without embarrassing himself further. They are in this place at his own request, tangled up in each other because he wished it to be so. Understanding his partner's penchant for wanton vulgarity, he steels himself to say, "I want you to fuck me."

Frankenstein's eyes brighten with amusement. He tilts his head slightly, feigning absurd naivety. "Oh, I'm afraid I'm a little inebriated, you understand. You'll have to remind me: how do you want me to fuck you? What should I put where? My hands, my cock—your mouth, your ass?" He presses against his friend harder, cornering him into the wall as he massages Ragar's pants.

Ragar's face burns crimson, breathing fast and shallow as Frankenstein works him through his clothes. The cold of the tile wall seeps in through his back and shoulders, contrasting strangely with their growing heat and giving him the sensation of being vaguely set ablaze, a mirror to the lingering warmth in his throat. Logic comes to him in tattered bits and pieces, but he knows that his choice would not be his mouth, preferring to keep his mask in place, to perhaps hide some portion of his embarrassing maiden's blush from his companion. "Your cock... My ass," the words a touch breathless, but steady.

"Oh my, how _scandalous_..." Frankenstein gives him a sly but vaguely proud smile. Then he sinks down to his knees. Perhaps the motion would have suggested that he plans on boldly refusing Ragar's request by instead pleasuring him with his mouth, but then he sinks lower and bends down reach for one of Ragar's tall, black boots. Frankenstein lifts his companion's leg slightly to rest it on his own bent knee. Carefully, with perfect mechanical fluidity, he begins to undo the long laces. The sound of him pulling them through every eyelet is rhythmic, like breathing. Done with one, he glances up to see Ragar peering down at him, still rosy-faced, but touched with curiosity. Frankenstein proceeds to repeat the process again with the other boot.

He stands, both long laces in his hands and tugs them taught. "This will have to do," he says mostly to himself. He looks up into Ragar's eyes with commanding clarity. "Turn around, hands behind your back," he tells him.

In the span of a breath, Ragar's back is turned, eyes taking in the disinteresting tile, his hands crossed obediently behind his back. Frankenstein's intent is apparent enough as he fingers the fine black cords, but even if it weren't, his trust in him is implicit.

He leans forward so that his breath touches the shell of Ragar's ear. Frankenstein is skilled enough with his hands to snugly bind Ragar's wrists together even without looking. "Ragar Kertia," he enunciates slowly and clearly. "Former esteemed clan leader of the Kertia clan, now reduced to asking for his ass to be stuffed with cock in a public restroom." Frankenstein chuckles softly. "Who would have thought?"

When he is done binding Ragar, he leans forward to rest his head on Ragar's shoulder, sighing deeply. Frankenstein wraps his arms around that slim waist to tug apart Ragar's belt and slide his pants down his thighs. He grasps firmly at the cock clearly, eagerly waiting for him. Pressed so close to his back, Frankenstein can feel the hard, cold outline of the firearm dutifully holstered under Ragar’s jacket—one of his gifts to his friend.

Ragar raises his head, recovering quickly from embarrassment at his companion's provocation and leaning in to where Frankenstein lingers heavily against him. He rolls his shoulders back to press further into him, eyes closed at the broad, hot hands holding him so well. The tight bonds at his wrists are an extension of his partner, freeing Frankenstein up to multiply the magnitude of his hold on him. An exercise in power over someone once stronger than himself, and evidence of Ragar's own immense infatuation and respect. His eyes slip open and then shut again, faced only with a pattern of shiny, shadowed white.

Frankenstein's eyes slip closed as well as he momentarily basks in the warm, intimate contact, softening his edge enough to seem almost tender with his loyal friend, but that dreamlike quality is shortly dispelled when he begins to bite at Ragar's neck, not enough to break skin—not enough for _a contract_ —but enough to hurt just a little as he strokes Ragar, working him with practiced, pleasant cruelty.

Ragar jolts abruptly straight, the hot breath and pain at his neck quickening his pulse as his body prepares to fight, to exchange blows. To act and react in this way is a savage pleasure, but here and now, his arms moving in a vain attempt to touch more of his friend, testing the strength of his bonds as Frankenstein pumps away at his cock, he could almost sigh at his own pleasant fate at the hands of his captor.

Frankenstein's other hand occupies itself briefly by undoing the buckle of his own belt and button and zipper of his pants. Knowing well the abilities of noble bodies, he does not bother going through the motions of thoroughly wetting and preparing Ragar before sliding home into him. It is too easy to wrap that long, swaying ponytail around his hand and pull back brutishly as he takes Ragar with abandon.

Head tipped back sharply, he tenses at the thick drag of pain within. Frankenstein's rushed tempo doesn't allow for him to adjust, discomfort and pleasure harshly overlaid as his companion hits him inside in just the right spot. Ragar arches mutely, breath stuttering, eyes watering slightly, flushed with heat and pain and the gratifying slip of Frankenstein's cock. His wrists ache and the pull on his hair divides his thoughts, freeing up his body to focus on the feeling of being _fucked_ . Of making love. He can hear the other's harsh panting, feel the warmth and moisture through the cloth on his neck. The scent of _Frankenstein_ , of alcohol and sweat and sex, of laundry detergent and leather, mingles oddly with the mild chemical scents of generic bathroom cleaning agents and fake flowers.

Frankenstein exhales, indulgent and merciless. He groans approvingly. "Tell me how it feels to be my personal slut, Ragar."

"Good," is the first thing out of Ragar's mouth, spoken on instinct. Honest. He cringes inwardly, grasping around for a better answer, frantically reviewing the contents of his internal collection of human poetry and romantic comedies for something more fitting, his thoughts scattering with each new thrust. Frankenstein pounds into him relentlessly, driving the very breath from his body. Giving up on finding the perfect words in the face of such treatment, he speaks again from himself. "It feels... Beautiful. It hurts, but I want it. It feels... good."

If Frankenstein were honest with himself, he'd admit to almost feeling a touch bad and sympathetic for treating his friend so callously. Ragar, despite his stoic and at times cutting nature, can be painfully earnest. He is, above all, a good friend. But Frankenstein knows himself, and he knows that he cannot resist an opportunity to put haughty nobles in their place, even if in mere erotic fantasy. Ragar's sweetness invites tender bullying.

Suddenly, there is a series of hard knocks on the door. "Hey! Is anyone in here?" a man shouts from outside. "Is something the matter? It's been a while!"

Frankenstein blinks, a little startled and taken out of the moment. But then he leans forward to Ragar's ear, and his voice drops into a whisper. "Be courteous, Ragar. You should give him an answer. Be honest."

Shuddering anew at Frankenstein's voice and breath in his ear, Ragar's brow furrows, suddenly serious. His words border on annoyance at the intrusion, "If you're the employee from earlier, then yes, I am still aware of which bathroom I occupy. Do not worry, I will finish soon." He grinds back against Frankenstein, increasing the force of their friction, altering their tempo.

"O-oh, okay—" The man seems to want to say more, perhaps to hurry Ragar along in consideration of the other patrons, but he awkwardly cuts himself off. The silence that follows after from outside is one characterized by the distinct desire to avoid being rude and intrusive.

Frankenstein huffs curtly. He thrusts against Ragar, easily accommodating their increased fervor at the reminder of their limited time. Heat and closeness swallow him, and he feels pleasure rising and pressing against them both. Frankenstein swallows and nuzzles against Ragar's neck, shutting his eyes. He can feel Ragar's cock warm and slick his hand obscenely. As Frankenstein continues to animalistically drag against his insides, he feels his body shudder and sing against Ragar's. The gratifying sound that reverberates in his chest is almost a growl, and Frankenstein drives into him harder, deeper, chasing an inflaming, sinfully inviting release.

Ragar, braced for a verbal retort at his loose adherence to Frankenstein's instructions, practically burns with pleasure to instead find his friend's face nestled against his neck. Warm breath and tenderness overtake him. Taught and rippling, with Frankenstein moving so fervently both within and around him, Ragar lets go, spilling himself generously across the wall. White over white.

Frankenstein inwardly beams at bringing Ragar to pleasure—not that he will admit this out loud. The soft gush and splatter of cum against the tiled surface and some onto his hand makes him grin. Breathing a little labored, he withdraws from Ragar enough to rest his own cock just on his ass and lower back. He lets go of Ragar's hair to stroke himself to completion, trembling slightly in his own hand and dirtying Ragar's skin and clothes with himself.

Frankenstein moans softly and sighs within the gently humming bliss of release. The hand wet with Ragar's cum crawls up to Ragar's mouth. His fingers slip over and under his mask. "Clean," he orders.

Lips part obediently before warm, sticky fingers, Ragar's tongue welcoming and thorough. He bites down, catching Frankenstein within his mouth and holding him there for a long moment, before releasing him with a final suggestive lick. He breathes in deeply, cold permeating the wet finger marks across his mask. Languidly, lazily, he relishes the sticky wetness seeping in through the tail of his shirt and dappling his bound hands, cum running lewdly down his ass and dripping softly on the bathroom floor. A small smile graces his eyes and lips, pleasure at the evidence of Frankenstein's enjoyment.

Frankenstein hums, casually satisfied as he steps back and admires the scandalous sight before him. Coldly, he turns away to wash his hands of the scene in the sink. His belt clinks as he puts himself back together and brushes his hair back neatly. He glances over to Ragar, who has turned slightly from the wall to peer at him, hands still bound, legs still spread apart, and clothes and skin still slick and wet from their hedonistic play. He sees his friend sigh and lightly rest his forehead against the wall, clearly waiting for Frankenstein to free him so that he too can put himself back together, but Frankenstein does not to this. Instead, he lets out a soft, amused chuckle, and abandons him without even a nod of acknowledgment as he steps out the door, careful to close it again behind him.

"Oh! You're not—"

Frankenstein recognizes the voice as being that of the man who had interrupted them earlier. He gives him a hard look, and the employee seems to instantly sink away from him, only to turn to the bathroom door. Frankenstein quickly places a firm, broad hand on the door, stopping the man from entering. "I'm sorry. My friend is still in there," he says flatly, as if it is only routine for two adults to emerge from the same public restroom.

The employee blinks. And then the realization slowly and visibly dawns on his expression. "Oh..." He turns away to cough into a fist as Frankenstein eyes him, unmoved. After an awkward beat, they hurriedly part ways.

Ragar swallows dumbly past the dry lump in his throat, face hot, blinking in confusion at being abandoned in this way. Truly, he does not understand Frankenstein. Normally, he would remain debauched for as long as his friend desired it, relying on Frankenstein to clean him when he was done with the view. But tied up, alone in the restroom of their favorite bar?

Grimacing, he straightens, lifting his head off the cool tile wall. He rolls his shoulders, relieving a little of their stiffness before moving his wrists against their bonds. He sighs. The ties hold predictably firm against his gentle resistance. The boots had been a gift, and he was loathe to damage them, even if it was just the laces. From the sounds on the other side of the door, it seems as though Frankenstein hasn't gone far, though apparently engaged in conversation with someone else.

Sighing again, shoulders slightly slumped, Ragar dismisses the crime-scene splatter of cum along with his crumpled and damp clothing, replacing it effortlessly with identical articles, though leaving the laces. Standing in front of the mirror, he inspects the knots behind his back, long fingers reaching for neatly-tucked knot tails.

After taking his sweet time purchasing a couple chilled bottles of water from the bar, Frankenstein makes his way back. Knowingly, he opens the door to find Ragar struggling to untie himself without brute forcing his hands apart. Frankenstein can not help his dry, condescending habits and scoffs. "One would think you, being an assassin, would be able to easily escape from a few strings." He glances over the rest of him as he approaches noticing that Ragar has already neatly cleaned himself. He stops Ragar's busy fingers with his own, placing the plastic water bottles on the edge of the sink to begin to undo the knots.

"Did you have this in mind when you bought me the boots?" Ragar's expression is outwardly stoic, despite being inwardly pleased at Frankenstein’s return.

Frankenstein smirks as he smoothly pulls apart the laces, blowing air out his nose. "Extra functional, would you not agree?" With a last slow tug, Ragar's hands are free, and Frankenstein steps around and kneels down to relace the boots.

Flexing his wrists, Ragar looks down at the top of Frankenstein’s head as he works, admiring the mechanical ease at which he threads the laces. He resists the urge to lay a hand on his companion's hair, but permits himself the luxury of openly staring.

Frankenstein catches his gaze for a moment. He smiles coyly, arrogantly, but does not comment further. Once he is done putting the final touches on Ragar with neatly tied bows, he straightens and tosses one of the water bottles to Ragar before motioning for them to exit the restroom together, finally freeing it for other guests. They receive a few quick, curious looks from those nearby who spot them step out of the same door.

The night still young, they manage to find a couple seats at the bar and settle in as if nothing has happened.

They finish off their waters as they wait for service. A familiar bartender serves them familiar drinks, which Frankenstein promptly spikes liberally and with discretion. The bar is even more bustling than it had been before their leave of absence.

Ragar swirls the liquor in his glass, just as he has a thousand times before. Admiring the play of liquid over ice while mulling over whether or not he'd opt to have sex in a public restroom again in the near future, a hand roughly grabs at his shoulder, attempting to pull him around. Obligingly, Ragar turns, meeting the red-faced gaze of an agitated patron.

"What d'you think you're doin', wearin' that mask in here?" he inauspiciously begins, brow furrowed in disapproval. "It's obviously not medical, take it off. You look like you're about to shoot up the place." 

"Apologies, but I am not able to remove it." Ragar turns back to his drink, only to have his shoulder unceremoniously yanked again.

A crushingly firm hand grabs the man's wrist, stilling him.

Frankenstein smiles utterly pleasant and composed. His rosy face practically beams. "I'm sorry kind sir," he coos. "If you have an issue with my friend's state of dress, you always have the option of _kindly, graciously, generously_ , fucking off." He smiles and smiles.

Yanking his hand back, the man sneers at Frankenstein with disgust. "Who the hell are you? You work in customer service in a past life or somethin'? I believe I was speaking to your friend, not you." He glowers menacingly for a minute before turning back to Ragar. 

"It's not hard, Sugar. Here." He darts forward, grabbing roughly at Ragar's face, crumpling fabric and pulling down. "Let me do you a favor. See? You ain't got nothin' to hide. Not many bitches got a face like yours." He cracks a smile, pleased at his handiwork.

The saccharine expression drops immediately from Frankenstein's face. There is a shuffle of activity—hushed whispers and nervous glances in their direction—as Frankenstein stands up and, perhaps somewhat affected by the buzz of a night of drinking, roughly shoves the man back with a hand, careful to not seem inhumanly strong, but not caring very much if he ends up breaking just one or two bones. "And you, _honorable sir,_ must have been a roach in a past life, seeing as _your_ face makes me want to shove my shoe into it."

The man stumbles back but manages to regain his footing. Before he can puff himself up to accost Frankenstein, however, a taller, impish-looking fellow tugs at his arm.

"Hey, hey, leave it. Let's go, let's just go, you've had enough to drink." He turns frantically to Frankenstein. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you see my friend here just got dumped by—" He suddenly shuts his mouth, wide eyed and acutely aware of spilling too much information. He only futilely tugs at his friend's arm again, stepping in the direction of the exit.

"Shut up, and stay out of this." The man elbows his friend roughly and steps forward. "And Mija can burn in hell for all I care. Can't you see I'm having a conversation with that hottie at the bar? Who fucking needs her?" 

"And you!" He turns back to Frankenstein, a sheen of sweat glistening across his caricature of a face. " _Honorable sir_. What the fuck century are you even from? 'Cause it sure as hell ain't this one. I'm gonna fucking press charges for assault, you royal fucking asshole. Not that you look like you wouldn't do well in a prison, you fucking fa-"

A loud _clack_ interrupts the man's rant, and all eyes are drawn magnetically to Ragar, mask replaced, now risen from his seat. A sinister black pistol lies atop the varnished wood of the bar, his pale hand covering it lightly. Previous pacifism set aside in light of such words, he adjusts it to point at the red-faced stranger.

A hush falls over everyone. Even the droning music seems to hold its breath.

"Wh—That's—that's not real is it? It can't be real," the man utters. In an instant, all of his fight deflates from him.

Ragar disengages the safety with a flick of his thumb, the click all but echoing in the relative silence. His eyes never stray from the man's face, gaze cool and level.

In the background, there is the quiet sound of someone hurriedly dialing three numbers; it is the stranger's tall, nervous friend.

_"112, what is your emergency?"_

"There is a person, black jacket, black mask, with a gun in a bar."

Suddenly, both Frankenstein's and Ragar's eyes are pinned on the man whispering into the phone.

* * *

In the far distance, they hear the sound of police sirens. Wind rushes past their ears as they hop from roof to roof.

"I can't believe you did that. Why did you do that?" Frankenstein asks. "I was perfectly capable of making him leave on my own."

Ragar glances over, brow furrowed in concern for his friend. "It was the least violent option."

"A _gun?_ " Frankenstein scoffs and rolls his eyes. Far away, against the night, city lights blink, and the sounds of law enforcement eventually become distant enough to disappear. "...I wasn't going to kill him," Frankenstein says, though not with all of his conviction. He sighs. "Thanks to that little episode, they'll call the police on us if we show our faces there again."

Ragar's flat expression betrays his lack of faith in Frankenstein. "Then we will find somewhere else, like we always do." A pause, and then quietly, "Perhaps a place with nicer restrooms."

Frankenstein gives Ragar a bemused look. His eyes light up, and he smirks, huffing. They bound the rest of the way home in comfortable silence and companionship.

* * *

In the early hours of the next morning, two uniformed officers knock at their front door.


End file.
